A Wrong End
by FireOpal
Summary: BBC Series. Very vague RMuch references, stronger RMarian suggestions, angst, character death and sappiness. Sorry about that :D


**Comments** - For my friend Smokey, who was in tears because of this (sorry! Didn't mean to:D ) and wants to see much (aha) more Much and Robin in the world. This can be taken as either het (with period-relationship references) or slash (if you have a mind like mine). I prefer slashy undertones, so if you want it as author-intended, then slash away.  
So yes, based roughly on the new series, warnings for character death and angst.  
And the end is terrible - I apologise. It sounded better in my head and now makes me cringe slightly. So sorry for that. OK, most of it is terrible, but Smokey told me to post this, and she does get cranky if she doesn't get her way :D It has been beta'ed (well, read through), but I apologise for any mistakes. Hmm... maybe you should call me The Apologist (in the words of REM).

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**An End.**

It was all wrong.

He dashed across the clearing; bow at his side, grasped tightly in his white, gripping fingers, the arrows in his quiver knocking against each other as he ran. He barely felt the uneven ground beneath his feet, didn't notice the way he was falling over branches and his own feet, his fingers almost skimming the ground to keep his balance.

He ignored the others; the skirmish around him as the other outlaws subdued the band of the Sherriff's men, didn't hear the clash of metal or their cries. For one dizzying moment he thought he was back in the Crusades, back to that awful time where he had got so used to the sounds of fighting and the screams of the dying, the shouts of the victorious that the night's relative silence felt uncomfortable.

It was all wrong.

This time, it wasn't Robin on the ground, fallen beneath a Saracen sword in a foreign land. This time there was no Much to run to his rescue, blade flying in front of him, mowing down all who would stand in his way. No Much to fall to his knees beside him, hands frantically trying to find the source and stem the bleeding, his face white, his eyes terrified but trying in vain to be comforting.

It was all wrong - it shouldn't be like this. Not now, after everything.

He dropped to his knees, throwing the worn bow to the grass. He pushed the heavy body of the fallen soldier roughly away, almost violently away from his friend, and the dead body rolled, sickeningly limp, away. He ignored it though, his hands quickly flying to the growing patch of thick, sticky blood on the front of Much's tunic.

"Master," Much choked, blue eyes flying up to meet Robins', wide and shocked.

"Don't try to talk," he replied quickly, trying to even his voice. "It's not too serious, but relax, keep your strength."

"Don't-" Much coughed slightly, then harder, his pale face turning ashen as he trembled. "Don't try to fool me, Robin. I know what a stab wound to the st-stomach means." He coughed again, though this time telltale blood flecked his lips.

"We've both seen men recover from worse," Robin said, a shake in his voice, flashing a quick, mirthless smile that leant none of the comfort he intended.

"Not this time, I don't think," he replied weakly, not even trying to lift his head from its bed of leaves and undergrowth. He did however reach out to grasp one of Robin's bloodstained hands, closing around the trembling fingers with his own shaking ones.

"We've got Marian, we'll get a physician, you'll be up in no time..." He trailed off as Much's eyes started to glaze and he clenched the hand tightly, startling his friend back into consciousness.

Much tweaked his lips into a small grin, no longer trying to speak but filling his eyes with more emotion than Robin could stand. He glanced away, his eyes stinging and filling quickly with tears.

"It can't be like this!" he bit out angrily. "We've not come so far to be parted now!"

He glanced back at his old friend, his stomach hollow and his heart tearing as he saw the light fade slowly from the familiar face.

"Master," Much said faintly, making Robin lean forwards, their faces nearly touching, eyes mapping the other. "I wanted you to know," he said slowly, very quietly, every word an effort "that I do love you."

"And I love you, Much," he replied honestly, fiercely., placing his free hand on Much's cheek. Much's lips curled upwards, and his eyes slid shut as he relaxed.

Robin closed his own eyes tightly, squeezing out the tears and fixing his friend's face firmly in his mind, eyes open and full of life. Then, almost calmly, he folded Much's hands across his stomach in a restful pose and leant forwards, touching his lips briefly to the still-warm forehead.

It was Marian that led him away, her own face pale and her eyes moist. She beckoned for the others to collect the body for burial and walked them a distance away, letting the silent, thoughtful man beside her have his privacy. Though she expected anger, violence, she remained in silence while he sobbed, holding him close to her to provide all the comfort she could.

If in the weeks following his plans were a little more rash and dangerous than usual, no-one mentioned it, they had no need for it seemed that there was a fire in their grieving leader that carried him on. If he killed more and without mercy, they did not mention that either. After a while he became more careful again, as though he had his own Much in his head that was cautioning him, at length, as he had always used to.

In time their fight won popularity, the very backing of the King. Robin married Marian and they lived. Then the King died and a new one took over and they took up the fight again, older, wiser, less merciful.

Then time passed as it does. In a nunnery lay the long-buried body of the beautiful Marian, visited often by the elderly Robin. Times changed, freedom won as well as it ever does and Robin's memory faded into legend and story, the other outlaws going to their own trades, marrying, having children and passing themselves but always keeping their past alive for those who wanted to hear it.

And one day, with the aid of a staff, Robin Hood, of Locksley left his home and went into Sherwood, passing underneath the sun-dappled leaves to fade between the trees. The ghost who had followed him lovingly all his long life returned, and the two of them travelled once more together into an entirely new adventure.


End file.
